


I Wish You Loved Me Back

by prowlstwinkass



Series: Falling In Love Isn't Perfect [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Distressingly long paragraphs and sentences, M/M, Unrequited Love, talking about your feelings through fictional characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 18:37:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11811897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prowlstwinkass/pseuds/prowlstwinkass
Summary: Love should be wonderful. Love should be quiet evenings on the couch and kisses on the forehead.Love isn't that way when you're the only one doing the loving.





	I Wish You Loved Me Back

**Author's Note:**

> This started as me talking about my feelings through Prowl and ended up 500 words too long. It's basically just long and poetic paragraphs about, like, love? Or something? Basically if you want a window to my soul and current love life here are 1098 words on it.

Sometimes Prowl looked at Jazz and was so very thankful to have him as a friend. And sometimes he looked at Jazz and wished with all his spark that the mech was his. Or that he was Jazz's. Or both.

It was hard to put a word to the feeling. A longing that split his spark deeper than any other want he'd felt. It wasn't a juvenile crush, he'd been feeling this thing for too long for that. It wasn't infatuation. Prowl knew what that felt like, and it never lasted long.

No, what he felt was something else. But he hesitated to label it love. Because what did love feel like? That kind of love, at least. Prowl didn't know, he'd never felt it before. All he knew was what he wanted, what he wanted with Jazz. He wanted to hold the mech, wanted to be held. He wanted to touch him, touch his face and his arms and his hands. He lay on his side in his berth at night and wanted Jazz to be behind him, arm draped over his waist like a heavy, reassuring blanket. Prowl wanted Jazz to be happy, wanted to hear his voice, listen to him talk, watch him laugh. He wanted Jazz to trust him, and he wanted to trust Jazz in turn; to pour out of his spark every secret he'd ever held, every doubt and hurt that he'd kept to himself, waiting for someone that he could give it all to.

Kisses were at the back of Prowl's mind when he wished for things with Jazz. Kissing was sure to be nice, but Prowl had never kissed anyone. Living for one's function meant few friends and, with Prowl's personality, no lovers. So Prowl had never kissed, or been kissed. It was sure to be nice, but he didn't know what it felt like, and had no memories with which to build fantasies. The only intimacies he desired were touch. So few mecha touched Prowl voluntarily. He didn't want them to touch him. But he wanted Jazz.

Was this love? Was this what love felt like?

Prowl had heard things about what love felt like. It felt like twilight and starlight; evenings at the movies and kisses on the head. It felt like flying, like being grounded. Love felt like living, as though they were the sun and you a planet blessed to be in their company. Love felt like all of that in stories.

And they all say that love hurts, too.

Prowl's love hurt. If it even was love. Prowl's love felt like a burning in his chest, an aching in his fingertips. His love felt like dying. A tiny ball of substance orbiting a star that was close enough to see but oh, so far away. Loving Jazz hurt. It hurt so much.

He looked across the room and saw Jazz. He was laughing. Laughing that bright, carefree laugh Prowl loved to hear. Jazz was sitting with his friends, drinking with them, talking and joking. Prowl wanted to go over, wanted to bask in Jazz's light, hear words directed towards himself, meet Jazz's gaze and offer his smile. But Prowl couldn't. Jazz hadn't invited him. Jazz had friends, he had so many friends. Better friends than Prowl, who were happier and funnier and altogether better.

Jazz was Prowl's best friend; his favorite companion, the one with whom he spent the most time. Jazz's company was superior to all others, his conversation entertaining and his jokes funny. Jazz was Prowl's best friend, but he was not Jazz's best friend. Jazz had many friends to choose from, many people from whom he could receive companionship. Prowl had only Jazz. He couldn't just ask Jazz to leave his friends, spend time with only Prowl. Couldn't selfishly keep Jazz for himself. Jazz would not, anyway. Prowl knew. Jazz would not. They were not close enough for Prowl to request such things.

Prowl didn't mind. Not too much. It hurt, but he was willing to let Jazz be happy. He would not make Jazz happy. He wasn't good enough. Loving Jazz was enough, wasn't it? If he truly did love him. Loving Jazz gave Prowl life. Loving Jazz felt good, felt right, even as it hurt.

The rational part of Prowl's mind, so dominant in any other situation but this, told him to stop. This was hurting him, it said. This wasn't good for him, for his delicately balanced emotional wellbeing. Better to stop loving Jazz. Deny it, refuse it. He didn't love Jazz. It was just a crush, an infatuation. A desire for companionship. And it was that. Prowl felt that desire keenly. So keenly it brought him near to tears at night, all alone in his room with his thoughts. He wanted so badly. It hurt. And he ought to stop.

But Prowl didn't want to stop. It felt so good to love. It was the purest thing he'd ever felt. Everything he wanted of Jazz fell to the wayside before his want to make Jazz happy.

Which was why he should stop. This love wasn't going to make Jazz happy, wasn't going to make Prowl happy.

Prowl didn't need to be happy, though. He was content to hover just within the sphere of warmth Jazz cast. Prowl was good at hiding. Even if he couldn't hide his feelings, Jazz would certainly never broach the subject if he noticed. And neither would Prowl. He could live on the scraps Jazz gave him; the smiles and small touches, pats on the back and rare invites to group outings.

It would hurt– it did hurt. But Prowl was content with that. Pain was part of loving Jazz. The ache in his chest and the tingling in his fingers felt good, because it meant he loved.

Prowl would never tell Jazz his secrets, would never give the mech his self. Jazz didn't want him. But that was fine. Being in his orbit was enough. Loving him was enough. Prowl was content to be beside him, content to lie in his empty bed and wish for a kiss and a hug. All of this, the space between them and the pain in Prowl's fingers, it would be enough. It would have to be enough.

"I love you," Prowl whispered, and wished that the words would travel across the room so Jazz could hear him. But Prowl wished a lot of things, and none of them would come true. Still, though, there was always room for more wishes.

"I wish you loved me back."


End file.
